A/N: Man, I almost thought I wouldn't be able to update today. O.O My Internet connection was completely DEAD all day until a few minutes ago.

I feel I should warn everyone now: in the near future, I might not be able to keep to my weekly updates, for two reasons. One, it's been really hard for me to work on this fic for the past few weeks, for some reason. (Summer might be to blame...) I'm still a few chapters ahead, but chiseling through a writer's block is slow going. Two, I'm gonna be doing a LOT of out of town stuff over the next couple of months, and I hear that free wireless is hard to come by in places like, oh, Brazil. Just as a completely random example. So if I miss a week or two, I apologize profusely ahead of time, and I'll try to make up for it with some really kickass chapters when I get back.

Anyway, enjoy this chapter, and please remember to review. Thank you!

Now, off to see WALL-E. (Woohoo!)

xxxxx

In Short Supply

Assassination Conspiracy

xxx

Transcript of a series of queries directed towards the Empirical Statistics Database, and the responses: query: I wish for you to clarify the meaning behind your statement "We do not expect much of you" on my secondary suggestions. The statement puzzles me and I believe it to be unfounded. If you cannot clarify, I ask for you to reassess the validity of the suggestion and, if necessary, to issue me a new one.

response: Query incomprehensible. Please use more general terms.

query: Cut the ignorant act. You are the Control Brain Triumvirate, the most advanced AI in the known universe, not a petty Earthen search engine. I am sure you are already well aware of my—Splayd's—identity, as well as the injustice of your secondary suggestion. Answer my previous query.

response: Query incomprehensible. Please use more general terms.

query: You suck.

response: You swallow.

query: Touché.

xxx

"Got any threes?" the cashier asked.

Zim skimmed his hand. A couple of aces, three twos, a four, a five, two sixes, one eight, a Jack, a Queen, and a Joker. "Go fish," he said.

The cashier sighed and drew a card; Zim looked over his hand again. He didn't have any Kings yet... "Got any Kings?"

"Go fish."

Zim grumbled, drawing a card. Another Joker. Ha, now he had two!

"Got any threes?"

Zim blinked. "Didn't you just ask for threes?"

"I want an even number," the cashier said. "I've only got four threes."

Zim rolled his eyes. "Clearly, you do not know how to play the game," he said. "Go fish."

Once the cashier had drawn, Zim said, "Got any threes?" The cashier sadly handed over one card. "Ha!"

The cashier slapped down three cards. "That's three threes!" he said victoriously. "King me!"

"But I don't have any Kings."

"Oh." The cashier glanced at his hand. "Right. I have them all." He sighed and drew a card.

It was a Tuesday, the slowest day of the week at Bloaty's; the partiers came in for pizza on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays; the disillusioned white-collar laborers came in on Mondays to steel themselves for the coming week; and the various and assorted bitches and assholes with self-entitlement complexes (Zim had learned those terms from the cashier) liked to come in on Wednesdays and Thursdays, when employee morale was worn down from a couple days of work but the weekend was still distant, because that was when the employees were most vulnerable to verbal assault. (They were rather surprised when they ran into Zim; he never wore out, and he never had a weekend off.) So, Tuesdays were slow.

That was just fine with Zim. He had his math homework processing in his Pak, with a new printer installed that wasn't affected by Epileprosy; he hadn't had to deal with any humans except the cashier for over ten degrees; and, best of all, he had a chance to learn more about Earth culture to facilitate his eventual conquest of the filthy planet. Now, he was learning about Earth pastimes.

Zim tossed down his cards, snarling, "This is pointless! What reason do you have for playing around with these cards? Do they do anything?"

"Uh... not really," the cashier said. "But if you're really good, you can make money off it."

That got Zim's attention. "Money? How?"

"Well, it's pretty much only if you play poker," the cashier said. "There's tournaments and stuff."

Poke-r? Tournaments? That sounded a lot more violent than Go Fish. Zim leaned forward. "Tell me more!"

Before the cashier could elaborate, Zim was distracted; the sixth sense that all good Frycooks developed informed him that someone important was approaching the restaurant. Not a regular customer, no—something bigger. Perhaps a health inspector? A regional manager? When Zim had been in practice on Foodcourtia, he'd been able to tell what kind of customer was coming in three degrees before they arrived—Sizz-Lorr had been able to anticipate the arrival of a health inspector two days beforehand. Now Zim predicted the visitor was mere footsteps from the restaurant.

"You! Back to your station!" Zim said, shoving the cards onto the floor so they'd be hidden from the doorway by the counter. "Look like you're busy. Someone's coming!"

"What, a customer?" the cashier asked, watching Zim hurry around to straighten disheveled stacks of napkins and pick up stray condiment packets.

"No. Something worse."

The cashier understood. He quickly got in position behind the cash register and Zim made a dash into the back room just before the door opened and two people walked in.

Two, Zim hadn't expected that. Nor had he anticipated the wave of evil they exuded. These were no health inspectors. They had to be food critics, then. Or perhaps Frylords from competitor food chains—but they weren't called Frylords here, were they? CEOs, then...

From out front, he heard one of the two evil-beings speak in a boring yet sympathetic voice. Evilly sympathetic. "Excuse me, mortal cashier, but I believe you have an employee here by the name of Zim?"

"Yes, sir!" Zim leaped into view, saluting. "Wh—" His eyes widened. "You're that counselor lady!"

Miss Fhtagn smiled. "Hello, Zim," she said sweetly. "I'm surprised you remember me. It isn't often I get to see students out of school."

"Uh... huh." She was still creepy. So very, very creepy.

Behind Miss Fhtagn, the person who'd come in with her whined, "Can you hurry up? It's bright in here and I don't like this place..."

Zim peered past Miss Fhtagn at the other figure. It was wearing a black hat, a black scarf, and sunglasses, but Zim could see the bulge of enormous fangs under the scarf. Was that a vampire? What was it doing here? Didn't it know about the Irken-Vampire Peace Treaty? He kept a close eye on the cloaked vampire.

"This won't take long at all," Miss Fhtagn said soothingly to the vampire. "You just do your job while I do the talking." And Miss Fhtagn turned back to Zim, beaming. "I hate to interrupt you while you're working so hard..." she glanced around the empty restaurant, "but the school district requires us to check in on students at work, like you. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all!" Zim said, tipping his head back cockily. This may as well have been a food critic, then; it was just another evaluation. He reminded himself that this was work, not school, and Miss Fhtagn was not a counselor but a customer. He put on a serious expression, crossed his arms uncomfortably over his stomach (two weeks until the next bunch of eggs were due), and said, "How can I help you, sir?"

"Well!" She smiled broadly. "I see you're much reformed from the last time I saw you. I'm very impressed, Zim."

"Can we hurry? Please?" the vampire whined again.

"All right." Miss Fhtagn pulled out a notebook. "Now then, Zim... You've been working here how long? About five weeks?"

"Yes sir."

"I see..." She scribbled a few notes. "As the night cook, correct?"

"Originally," Zim said. "I got a promotion. I'm night manager now."

"Night manager! How delightful. I'm so proud of you, Zim."

"Uh-huh, whatever." Why was she so creepy?

Miss Fhtagn closed her notebook. "Well, I think it's clear you're gainfully employed. The school district should be satisfied." She turned to the vampire. "What do you say?"

He glided forward, slipping his sunglasses down his nose enough to peer at Zim. In the fluorescent light his skin glimmered with sunscreen. "Okay. Approved. Now can we go?" He shoved his glasses back up, but not before Zim recognized him.

"Wait—Count Gwidnit?!" Zim said. "What are you doing here?"

Gwaednerth gave Zim what was surely a withering stare—and probably a dark, apocryphal, eldritch one, too—no, wait, Miss Fhtagn was more the eldritch type, wasn't she?—and sneered, "Don't you know? Half the school board is made up of vampires." Then he turned around, shoulders hunched against the fluorescent lighting, and skulked towards the door. "I'm leaving. There's too much garlic here."

Miss Fhtagn shook her head. "I swear!" she said. "Those vampires. Such weaklings. I wouldn't be surprised if even Great Cthulhu declined to devour their souls..." She glanced back at Zim and the cashier, tittered lightly, and then said, "Oh, just—just a little joke. It was a pleasure seeing you again, Zim."

"Yes, sir..." Still creepy. Zim didn't relax until the door had shut behind Miss Fhtagn.

"Vampires on the school board," the cashier said, shaking his head. "That explains everything."

"Hmm..." Zim was more concerned about the counselor. So, he was being monitored, was he? Fine—the Joonier Hi Skool could monitor him as much as they wanted, because it didn't matter. He'd be the most humane human that humanity had ever seen, and they'd have no reason to suspect him of anything until it was too late. And when he finally conquered their filthy planet, they'd never see it coming.

Speaking of which, he'd better get back to his plans of conquest. There were still no customers (and Zim's Frycook sense didn't detect anyone coming) so he turned back to the cashier and said, "This card stuff is too tricky to be worth the monies! Does it have any other benefits? Hypnotic properties, perhaps?"

"Well, some people get addicted, but I don't know anything about hypnotism," the cashier said, shrugging. "Except for Bloaty's commercial. I think it's got some hypnotism stuff."

"Really? It does?!" Zim leaned forward, eyes shining with a manically enthusiastic light. "Tell me. Tell me everything."

xxx

Over the past few days, it had become impossible for Purple to relax at all unless he was in his quarters. Alone. With the door locked.

He didn't quite know what it was, but he had this feeling, like he was being targeted somehow, and it wouldn't leave him alone. His antennae were constantly twitching, from high and alert to flat as if in shame. He could never quite hold still, always turning his head slightly, looking for something just out of the corner of his eye. He wondered how it was possible Red hadn't noticed and commented on Purple's weird behavior yet. Oh, well. Perhaps he was lucky.

At 147°, the door seal was engaged, Purple's privacy was secure, and he felt like he could almost collapse in exhausted relief. He was usually in his quarters from 160° to 180°, but he'd been leaving the bridge earlier and earlier these days. In the seventeen days since his last trip to Earth, nothing had felt right.

Red was barely speaking to Purple, for no reason he could see; maybe he was annoyed at him for leaving the Massive to get snacks and coming back empty-handed? That'd sure annoy Purple. But still, it wasn't like Red to hold grudges over stuff like that.

Red wasn't the only one acting strange. The workers on the Massive—Techs and Drones and Advisors and everyone else—had all been treating him differently. Previously enthusiastic servants were slow to obey his orders, hesitant in their loyalty. Purple suspected the short Irkens were up to something. Maybe... maybe planning an assassination?

He'd have told Red, if Purple had thought he'd listen. As far as he could tell, Red didn't notice anything strange, and the last time Purple had pointed out something odd—the lack of average-height Irkens—Red had thought he was just being a moron. And yet...

Purple couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Tracked. Calculated. Constantly. When he approached Irkens, they fell silent, and whispered together when he had passed. When he spoke, he could see Irkens across the room carefully look away from him and quirk their antennae up, straining to hear what he said without making it obvious. When he asked others to do something for him, instead of saluting, they paused, peering at him, mouth pursed as if about to ask "why?" before they finally, reluctantly, followed his orders.

If it were just the Drones, Purple wouldn't doubt for a moment that this was the work of some conspiracy of shorter Irkens, a planned rebellion of the proletariat. But it wasn't—he'd almost been questioned by a Technician around 125 units in height; he'd gotten suspicious looks from an Advisor at least 170 units tall. If this was an assassination conspiracy, it went right to the top of the empire's hierarchy.

But then why hadn't Red noticed? He was supposed to be the smart one. Surely if someone was planning to kill the Tallest, he'd be the first to notice and then he'd tell Purple.

Unless he was in on it.

In a moment of paranoia—just in case—Purple shoved his couch in front of the door. Never mind that his door slid open sideways and so the couch was useless, unless he hoped his assassin would trip over it. The barricade made him feel better.

He sat on the couch, letting his head rest against the door as he tried to calm himself. "This is ridiculous," he hissed. "Why would Red try to kill me? I mean, it's not like he wants to be Tallest by himself. Does he?" If he did, he didn't have to assassinate Purple—all he had to do was repeal the Tenth Law when Purple wasn't around, and then there'd be no way Purple could stop him.

"And I wouldn't want to stop him anyway," Purple muttered. "It's not like I asked to be the Tallest, did I? The free snacks and everything are great... but..." As the Tallest, even though he did basically nothing, he always had these nagging doubts that said he should do something. He had nearly absolute authority. Shouldn't he be using it to help the empire?

Well, of course. That was why he'd started this mission with Zim, wasn't it?

"Okay, Pur. C'mon. Does Red have any reason to want you dead? No, of course not. So there." But Purple couldn't shake the feeling that he was being observed, analyzed, stalked. It was a really creepy feeling. He had to talk to someone, anyone, who he knew was still loyal to him.

He turned on his computer and contacted Zim's base on Earth.

Bob answered. "Tallest Purple?" He gave Purple a distrustful look. "Do you want something?"

"No, I just wanted to call you to talk about the weather we're having here. Y'know, in outer space," Purple said dryly. "Where's Zim, Drone?"

"Somewhere." Bob flattened his antennae suspiciously. "What do you want with him?"

Why was Bob getting suspicious? He knew about the mission. "Just go get Zim."

"I have to tell him what you want with him."

"No, you don't." Purple narrowed his eyes. "Hey. You're with them, aren't you?"

"With... who?"

"Don't play dumb! You're part of the conspiracy, aren't you? No lying! I know exactly what you're up to, shorty!"

"Um—"

"I said no lying! I'm still the Tallest, you know! I could get your Pak melted down to scrap metal and your body tossed in an ocean! How'd you like that, huh? You wanna meet your maker up close, Slarkist?"

Bob's eyes welled up in terror. "No, I don't! And Slark isn't my maker," he said. "Besides, I'm a Zimish Slarkist! I like the Youngest Tallest Zim."

"Oh, you like Zim, do you?" Purple said, tilting his head back and glaring down at Bob. "Great! Then go get him."

Bob wiped his eyes. "Go jump in a lake," he snarled, before running off.

"HEY! You disgusting little—" Purple resisted the urge to throw something at his computer. "You'd better be looking for Zim!"

He was definitely out to get Purple. Everyone was. But Bob in particular, because he was so tiny. He'd have to keep an eye on Bob...

"My Tallest?!" Zim ran in front of the screen with a clatter of Pak-legs. He stumbled to a stop, hastily saluting. "To what does Zim owe this honor, my T—ah, Pur?"

Purple internally winced at the word; it didn't sound natural, coming out of Zim. "I'm just... checking on the mission." Yeah, that sounded convincing.

"Which one?" Zim asked eagerly.

"Er..." Right, Zim was an Invader again, wasn't he? "Whichever."

Zim's grin widened. "Both are going splendidly! The next time you're down here, Pur, I'll have to show you my new plans to—"

"Zim," Purple interrupted, "you're still loyal to me, aren't you?"

"Huh?" He'd been self-absorbed in his own lofty thoughts, where he was already supreme ruler of Earth; he seemed startled by the question that had dragged him back to reality. "Of course I am."

"Good," Purple said. Just hearing someone say it—even Zim—was relieving. "If—if you had to choose, between me and Red. If you could only obey one of us—who would you obey?"

Zim looked surprise. "Uh... you, Pur." He frowned a bit, puzzled, as if wondering why on Irk Purple had even needed to ask. "Of course I'd obey you."

That's what Purple had known he'd say. Zim could hardly say he'd obey Red while talking to Purple, could he? But Zim hadn't said it like idle praise. Somehow Purple knew that if Red had asked the same question, Zim still would have said Purple.

Slowly, Purple felt his paranoia seeping out of him. Maybe the entire Massive was planning his assassination. Zim wasn't. And that was all Purple could afford to think about if he didn't want to dissolve into a pile of irrational terror.

For a moment, he was actually glad he'd ended up with Zim as a friend. As long as this mission was a secret, he was the only one Purple could talk to, the only one he wasn't keeping any secrets from, and in return, Zim was unquestioningly loyal, untiringly enthusiastic, willing to do whatever Purple asked.

Why did he have to be so defective? If he wasn't...

"Pur?"

Purple looked back at Zim. "Huh? What?"

"You zoned out," Zim said.

"Oh... y-yeah. Sorry."

Zim frowned, leading closer to the screen and studying his Tallest's face with what almost looked like concern. "Are you all right? You're acting weirdish."

He'd actually noticed? "Things are kinda not good here, I guess."

"Does it have to do with my new mission?"

"What?" Purple blinked. "Uh—no?"

"Oh. Okay." And instantly Zim's concern for Purple's welfare had completely dissipated. "So! You asked about how my plans for the invasion of Earth are progressing, right?"

Purple never said that. "I thought you weren't invading Earth until the egg mission's over," he said.

"Uh. Yeah." Zim glanced to the side, avoiding Purple's gaze. "I'm not, eh, actually working on it, see. Just... practicing, y'know."

"Sure you are." Purple rolled his eyes. But he didn't have anything better to do... "So, how is it going?"

"I've been researching Earth produce!" Zim said, his eyes brightening. "And I've made an amazing discovery. See, Earth fruit has loads of sugar in it, so it should make good snacks, right?"

"Right." It had been centuries since Irkens had regularly eaten plain fruit. He wondered what it tasted like.

"Wrong!" Zim declared, pointing into the air with one finger as if this were a declaration of utmost importance. "Their fruit is a trap. It's full of sugar, true—but it's also filled with hydroxylic acid!"

Purple frowned. "Why do they put water in their food?"

Ignoring him, Zim went on. "And they're taunting me, too. Do you know what the filthy humans call their fruit! Watermelon!" Zim pounded one fist on the counter in front of his computer screen and fixed Purple with an infuriated glare. "Water! Melon! This is outrageous!"

"Uh... yeah." Purple had no idea what "melon" meant, but didn't really care to know and didn't think Zim cared if he knew. Zim was just ranting, anyway.

"They're just trying to invoke my wrath," Zim hissed. He twisted his hands in the air as if he were strangling some wrath-invoking Earthen already. "And oh, how they'll feel it. It will burn them like a thousand flaming burns!" Suddenly his tone changed completely, becoming rather eerily perky. "And you'll help, right, Pur?"

"What? Er, yeah, sure." Purple shrugged; he had no idea what he'd just committed to.

"Because I'm an Invader, and the Tallest always help out Invaders," Zim said proudly, putting his hands on his hips and grinning. "And now that I'm officially recognized as an Invader, Earth will surely fall within days!" Again with the villainous cackle.

Purple rolled his eyes. "After the egg mission, Zim."

The laughter quickly ended. "Yeah, I knew that," he muttered. "Just how long must I endure this mission, anyway?"

"Uh..." Purple had never planned out how to end the mission. There were billions of Irkens in the Empire, nearly two hundred billion. There were a handful of average height, when there should be more average-height Irkens than anything else. It wasn't possible for two Irkens, in a single lifetime, to produce even a fraction of the number of Irkens it would take to fill the height gap. Purple lowered his antennae. "I, uh, don't know. I guess... it'll go until I find a better solution."

"What 'better solution'?"

"If I had one, we wouldn't be doing this, would we?" Purple snapped. He wasn't really all that annoyed at Zim. He was embarrassed at himself, for not having a better answer. And for not having a better plan. Honestly, the longer he stopped to think about it, the stupider this whole "mission" sounded. Which was why he couldn't let himself think about it. If only Purple had been able to ask Red for help...

But Red was potentially part of the conspiracy. Purple couldn't go to him now.

"Eh, whatever," Zim said darkly. "Anyway, I've got work to do. I must go to Bloaty's soon, and before then I'm trying to invent a mass hypnotism device. It will be powered by watermelons." He smirked evilly. "The irony will be delicious in a way their fruit never was!"

And, as usual, Zim made no sense. At least he was still predictable in his unpredictability. Not everyone was being completely weird. "I can't wait to get back to your base," Purple said, sighing, speaking half to Zim and half to himself. Who'd have thought he'd ever use Zim as a source of comfort?

Zim's eyes lit up. "And, of course, I eagerly await your return! Invader Zim, signing off!" he said, saluting. "Bye, Pur."

Purple smiled wryly. Zim was getting too attached to that nickname. "Bye, Zim."

The moment the transmission ended, so did Purple's momentary reprieve from fear. Without a distraction, the paranoia he'd tried to leave outside seeped back into his quarters. Apparently, fear wasn't bothered much by the couch blocking the door.

Purple couldn't stay here much longer. If his suspicions were right, then he was in mortal danger; if his suspicions were wrong, then he was slowly going insane.

As soon as he could get away without attracting Red's skepticism, Purple had to escape the Massive.

xxxxx